


When I Find You, I'll Find Me

by isyotm



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:56:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isyotm/pseuds/isyotm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin doesn't think he can wait anymore. Arthur has strange dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Find You, I'll Find Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Merthur Party 2013, Day 6: Just the Beginning.

Merlin stops waiting sometime during the 1950s.

(At least, he thinks it was the ‘50s. It might’ve been the ‘60s. He just remembers it was after the living nightmare that was the ‘40s. He can probably count the number of times he slept through the night during that decade on one hand. Hours lost to tossing and turning, flashbacks from Uther’s genocide of magic users mixing with the photos he saw in the papers, the stories he read, and _what if Arthur was in one of those camps? No, Merlin, that’s not why you should care, but Arthur, Arthur, Arthur…_ )

He wakes up one morning and puts all of the memories in a box and hides the box away deep within his heart, deeper than the cave Kilgharrah languished away in, deeper than the crystal cave, the birthplace of magic, deeper than the place he buried the secret of his destiny.

It’s been more than a millennium. A thousand years is a long time. A long time to hold onto regret, to wallow in grief.

A long time to wait.

Too long.

_I’m sorry. But this time you ask too much of me._

He walks to the lake, stands in the spot where Arthur died in his arms, where he screamed into the sky for Kilgharrah to come and save the most important person in his life.

_The place where I failed._

Because really that’s all that matters. That he failed, failed _so many times_ , ignored every warning, took all the wrong turns until he was too lost and turned around to ever find the way back again.

A thousand years is a long time to hope, to hold back tears when night falls because another day has passed and those hopes have been proven fruitless, stupid dreams.

He doesn’t hold back the tears now.

He lets them run down his cheeks, lets the sobs rack his body until he can barely breathe, barely move. He could fill the lake again three times over with how much he cries, but it doesn’t seem to stop. He’s outside time and space. A whole year could pass in the time he cries, but he doesn’t notice, doesn’t feel it.

Until at last he stops. Until, at last, his breathing evens out and he sleeps.

When he wakes up, he turns around and walks away. He doesn’t look back.

_Goodbye._

 

* * *

 

He always wondered about the origin of his name.

The men in his family have names like John and Joseph and Gabriel; “Bible names,” he heard someone say once. And it’s true. His family is religious, they go to church on Sundays and celebrate Easter and Christmas, say grace before dinner and the names they carry, the names they give to their children and their children’s children, reflect that.

Except for him.

He’s looked. He and his father read through the entire Bible when he was growing up. He paid attention to every name his father read out in his special bedtime-story voice, but no one was ever called Arthur.

“Where did my name come from?” he asked his mother once. He was nine, sitting at the kitchen counter and kicking his legs against the chair as he worked on his math homework.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” his mother replied absently. She as in the middle of preparing dinner, some complicated recipe that his father would insist is delicious but he would still refuse to eat.

“Where did my name come from?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Curious.”

 His mother floated (because she is grace itself, even now in her old age, elegant, calm, poised, and beautiful to the point of being surreal) to the sink and washed the vegetables. Arthur wrinkled his nose. He didn’t like vegetables.

“We thought it fit you.”

“What do you mean?”

His mother smiled. “We were going to call you Jacob, but then after you were born and I held you in my arms, Daddy and I both thought Arthur was a better name.”

He nodded, satisfied for the time being. It was a concrete enough answer, but there was a hint of mystery in it that appealed to the nine year-old boy kicking his feet against the chair. He liked mysteries.

 

* * *

 

He tells himself he’s done waiting, but his heart is not quite ready to let go. Even as he ignores it, even as he tries to immerse himself in the day-to-day reality of Merlin Emrys, insurance salesman and regular Joe, it seems like the world is bursting at the seams with Arthur, with Camelot, with the life he is trying so hard to leave behind.

It’s the colors, he thinks. The colors that have stories upon stories hidden in every shade.

He looks up at a clear blue summer sky and sees the color of Arthur’s eyes, twinkling with laughter. He sees the sky above the training grounds as Arthur runs the knights through drill after drill after drill. He sees Cornelius Sigan’s heart, he sees Mercian blue and Nimueh’s steely eyes, daring him to trust her, daring him to take a drink from the Cup of Life. The unforgiving icy blue waters of the lake of Avalon, the sunlight glinting off the waves so close but just too far away.

There’s a patch of grass eking out a pathetic existence on a city street corner and he sees the green of Camelot’s grounds, the scales of the snakes Valiant hid in his shield, the forests he spent countless hours riding through with Arthur and the knights, the herbs that Gaius would send him out to collect. Sometimes though, all he can see is the green of the dress Morgana wore when he poisoned her and he remembers how her body grew heavy as he held her, biting back the countless _I’m sorry_ s that tasted so bitter on his tongue.

Occasionally there’s a flash of gold or yellow, light reflecting off someone’s jewelry, and he sees the yellow of Kilgharrah’s knowing eyes, the gold of the dragon rampant on the Pendragon crest, the blond of Arthur’s hair as he sat at his desk by the window and worked through the stacks of parchment covering his desk.

But the hardest is red.

Red is Pendragon red, the color of the knights’ cloaks, of the dress Gwen wore whenever she was The Queen, regal and commanding, beloved by the people. It’s Arthur’s favorite shirt, it’s the stupid outfit he was forced to wear the first time he served as Arthur’s manservant at a feast.

Red is the color of Arthur’s blood as it seeped through his chainmail and stained his hands.

Sometimes he wishes the world existed in black and white the way it once did in photographs.

 

* * *

 

He has strange dreams sometimes.

_“In sibbe gerest.”_

_He watches through a mirror as a boat sails out into the lake. There’s a man on the shoreline, his body slumped from fatigue and a great sadness that seems to weigh on his thin frame._

_He wants to reach out, to comfort the man he sees, someone he knows so well, someone he cares about deeply, but the mirror is impassable._

_“Your time will come again,” says a voice behind him. The words are meant to offer comfort, but there is no warmth in the tone. He finds it ironic, the lack of warmth to be found in paradise._

_Or maybe that’s just because he’s lonely._

I miss you, _he thinks to the man on the shoreline._

When he wakes up after these dreams, the feelings associated with them linger for hours, sometimes days.

He only wishes he could see the man’s face.

 

* * *

 

One morning, Merlin wakes up and feels…different.

He spends the whole day wandering around in a daze, trying to come up with words for what he feels, but he can’t quite reach them.

At last, when his body comes to rest as he settles into bed for the night, he finds them:

It’s like he’s been swimming this whole time, wandering through the world underwater, and suddenly he’s come up for air. The burning in his lungs is assuaged, the air is fresh and cool on his skin, and though he no longer feels weightless, it’s so much easier for him to move.

The last thought in his mind before he succumbs to sleep is an idle, disinterested _I wonder why that is._

 

* * *

 

He keeps adding up two and two and two and only ever getting five.

He has a loving family, one he looks forward to seeing when the holidays roll around (and how many people can say that?), a job he enjoys most days and tolerates others, a boss who cares about her job and her underlings, and a group of loyal friends who he trusts with his life.

And more importantly, he’s _satisfied_ with all of these things. He doesn’t feel empty or undeserving or depressed, but there’s something keeping him from the fulfillment that he read about in one of his college classes, the kind that 17th and 18th century thinkers associated with true happiness.

“Arthur, you need a girl,” Gwaine says over a drink.

Arthur snorts. Of course. That’s Gwaine’s solution to everything.

“Or a boy,” Gwen chimes in, thoughtful and inclusive as always.

“Someone,” Lance says.

But he doesn’t want just _anyone_. There’s… He doesn’t know specifically what or who he’s looking for but he’ll know when he finds them.

_The man on the shoreline._ Arthur shakes his head. That’s just a dream.

“You sound like that Billy Joel song,” Gwaine says.

“Since when do you listen to Billy Joel?” Arthur asks, amused.

“Since it makes me look cultured and sensitive and makes the ladies swoon.”

“Well, looks like you’re SOL tonight. The only lady here is Gwen and she’s already spoken for.”

“Why don’t you save it for Elena instead?” Gwen asks with a sly grin.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gwaine says and takes a long drink.

Arthur orders them another round. Maybe if they get drunk enough, they’ll leave this topic behind. Chewing it over and over again like a dog with a bone just makes him feel melancholy, wistful, like returning to the empty space left behind by a forgotten memory.

 

* * *

 

Merlin likes the 2000s. And he likes the 2010s even better. The technology age gives him the excuse to be a hermit, a shut-in, and, more importantly, gives him things to do while he avoids the world. Movies and TV shows and books all without ever leaving the safety and comfort of his home. For the first time, he can jump in on the water cooler pop culture references and actually know what he’s talking. He’s seen the latest episode of whatever TV show is popular this month, he’s watched the new movie that just came out, he knows all about what this or that star said or did.

He hates it.

He feels like he’s acting again, like he’s lying.

_This isn’t me._

He promised himself he would never play the fool again, would never deliberately deceive the people he cared about. And yet he can’t stop himself. It’s like a well-worn groove he finds himself tracing over and over again, clothes that he despises but wears anyway because they fit so well. It’s easy, it’s familiar, it’s comfortable. It disgusts him.

When he gets home, he begins to pack his bags, making plans for the next life he will lead, the next person he will be. It’s time to leave again anyways.

He stands in front of the map in his room, the countless countries around the world spread out for him like a banquet.

Where to next?

 

* * *

 

The office is abuzz when Arthur gets in that morning, but he ignores the gossip, focusing instead on the pile of work in his outbox he abandoned the evening before. It isn’t until he takes a break for lunch that he learns what has everyone all aflutter.

“Did you hear?”

He looks up to see Mithian walk into the break room.

“Hear what?”

“New guy.”

“So?”

Mithian waggles her eyebrows at him. “He’s cute, Arthur.”

Arthur almost chokes on his sandwich. “Are you allowed to say that?”

She shrugs. “He’s not working in this department so I’m not technically his boss.”

“But you’re _my_ boss.”

“But I’m also your friend.” She gives him a tentative smile. “He really is cute, though.”

“So?”

“So…Do you want me to ask Vivian to set something up or something?”

He groans. She and Gwen have been talking again it seems.

“No. No way. No more blind dates.”

“Well, if you saw him first, would it technically be a blind date?”

“And how would I see him? ‘Accidentally’ running into him?”

Mithian nods. “Yeah, good idea. I was just going to send you on some arbitrary errand down to design but that sounds much more plausible.”

He sighs.

 

* * *

 

There is someone in the office named Arthur.

He hears his new boss, a blonde woman named Vivian, mention him off-handedly and he freezes in place. The rest of her comment gets lost in the rush of blood roaring in his ears and he grips the edge of his new desk, his knuckles stark white from the effort of holding himself up. Centering himself.

_It’s just a name, Merlin._

“Merlin?” Vivian says in a tone of voice that implies this isn’t the first time she’s called his name.

He forces himself to smile. “What was that?”

“I was just asking if you were alright?”

“Y-yes, I’m fine. Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“Um, right. Well, like I said, here’s your desk. If you have any questions, you can ask me or Lily—her office is right over there—” Vivian points to a solid wood door with a black nameplate on the wall next to it. “Okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Vivian leaves, obviously still a little concerned, but he gets right to work, ignoring the annoying little voice in his head and the way the box he buried in his heart has started to open the tiniest crack.

 

* * *

 

There is a gorgeous black-haired man in the break room.

Arthur stops in the doorway, not wanting to disturb the stranger and send him skittering back to the cubicles (Arthur tends to have that effect on people for some reason). He admires the long lines of the man, although they’re somewhat masked by the one-size-too-big white button-down and blue slacks, and the way his hands handle the coffee and creamer. Long hands, strong and purposeful. A musician’s hands, hands that are used to creating something beautiful.

“You must be the new guy,” he says finally.

The man jumps, spilling coffee down his front, across the counter, and onto the floor. He emits a string of impressively creative curses (Arthur’s not even sure all of them are in English) and reaches for the roll of paper towels hanging above the sink.

“Sorry about that,” Arthur says as he steps forward to help.

The new guy tenses. “Yeah, well, if you hadn’t crept up on me—”

“I was standing there for a good five minutes. Not my fault you’re not observant.”

The new guy raises an eyebrow, but he still doesn’t look up. “Watching me, were you?”

Arthur scoffs to cover his embarrassment. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not like there’s a whole lot to look at anyway.”

Arthur could kick himself. _Yeah, insult him, that’s the way to get people to like you._

Although it does get the new guy to look at him.

Arthur feels his breath catch in his throat as something in his heart clicks into place.

_You._

_All this time, I was missing you._

 

* * *

 

Merlin locks himself in the bathroom and tries not to hyperventilate.

Arthur looks like _Arthur_.

Blond, blue eyes, tall but not overwhelmingly so, strong lines all around.

_No. Don’t start._

Every blond man with blue eyes looks like Arthur to him. Sometime during the regency period, he got spectacularly drunk with a man who he was convinced was Arthur and they went home together. When he woke up in the morning, the man was indeed blond and had blue eyes, but he was too short, too weasel-faced. Too _wrong_.

Maybe he just needs repeated exposure. Time to get over the shock, to pick apart Arthur’s face and realize he’s just someone with the same name, someone who looks like _his_ Arthur but isn’t.

_You gave up, remember? It doesn’t matter either way._

But in his heart he knows that’s not true.

 

* * *

 

Arthur stops into Mithian’s office on his way back from the break room.

“What was the new guy’s name again?” he asks, trying to be nonchalant.

Mithian looks up with a grin; obviously he hasn’t fooled her at all. “Merlin,” she says cheerfully. “Why?”

_Merlin._ His heart rate speeds up and the word settles into place inside his brain, like he was waiting for it all along.

“No reason. I just ran into him is all.”

“And?” Mithian asks knowingly.

Arthur shrugs but he feels his face heat up. “You know, whatever. Not really my type.”

“Oh?” He can tell he’s not fooling her at all.

“Yeah, but I guess I can see why other people might be interested.”

_Merlin._

 

* * *

 

Merlin goes to the break room like a spy in a movie. He peeks around corners and freezes at even the smallest noise, but all of his attempts at espionage don’t prepare him for the eventuality of Arthur already waiting for him.

No matter how he looks at the man sitting at table, everything is exactly the same as _Arthur_ , right down to the knowing smirk.

“Merlin,” Arthur says brightly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Merlin stomps pointedly to the coffee machine.

“Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Merlin ignores him and turns around to leave.

“Oh, come on, don’t run _away_.”

He almost drops the mug in his hand. In his mind’s eye, he can see it shatter (kind of like his heart right now) and spill a tidal wave of coffee across the break room floor, a repeat of their first encounter.

“From you?” he replies, voice shaky where it should be sarcastic.

“Thank god,” he hears Arthur mutter and the rush of nostalgia is too much.

_Do you even remember me?_

No, this is just a copy—a convincing one, but a copy all the same. And the sooner he remembers that, the easier this will be.

“Listen, I wanted to kind of apologize for yesterday—”

“Accepted,” Merlin says stiffly, edging towards the door.

Arthur frowns, although he remains undeterred by Merlin’s cold reception. “—and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to—”

“I don’t like blonds.”

“Did one break your heart?” Arthur asks with a grin.

_The lake is in sight, so close and yet so far, but Arthur is growing heavy in his arms and he knows, he knows they won’t make it, that he’s too late_ again _, too late to make the right decision, too late to save everyone, too late to save Arthur. He tries to get up again, but when Arthur asks him to “Just hold me. Please,” he stops. This is the end. This is the end he’d been trying to avoid, the end he wasn’t good enough, smart enough, strong enough to prevent._

“Yes,” Merlin says. He doesn’t do a good job of keeping the tears out of his voice.

Arthur looks startled and well on his way to mortified. He opens his mouth, maybe to apologize or some Arthur-ish equivalent, but Merlin doesn’t want to hear it. He pushes past and escapes into the maze of the office with his coffee.

 

* * *

 

That night, he has another one of his strange dreams.

_Fire. It lights up the night like a noontime sun, but the heat rolling over the battlements is hotter than anything he’s ever felt before. He feels like he’s melting, like the whole castle is melting, but he pushes on. He has to. Even with the stench of terror, of burnt skin and death, thick in the air he must be strong._

_A loud roar rends the air, making his ears vibrate painfully with the sheer amount of_ sound _, and he turns._

_The dragon’s eyes are bright yellow, burning into his. Even despite his father’s efforts, he had heard stories of the dragons, of their wisdom, of their majesty. The creature in front of him is certainly majestic in its own way, but there is no wisdom in its eyes. Instead, he sees only pain, rage, revenge. It reminds him of a wounded boar, lashing out at anything that makes the mistake of getting too close._

_“Flame up!” he calls. The knights along the wall light the arrows notched in their crossbows, a line of fire. Their stand against the dragon. He just hopes it will be enough._

_The dragon swoops closer and now Arthur can see the pattern of its scales along its hide. It opens its mouth and he can already feel the heat building. He braces himself for another blast of heat—_

His alarm clock goes off, startling him awake so abruptly he doesn’t understand why he’s looking at his room and not the approaching form of a dragon, a line of faithful knights, and a night sky filled with stars and smoke rising from burning homes.

And it was so _clear._ There were _names_ this time. Faces. As he looked out at the line of men, he knew each and every one of them. Their strengths, their weaknesses, the measure of their loyalty to their kingdom. And their loyalty to him.

He sits adrift in his sea of blankets before shaking his head and hopefully also shaking off the strange sense of déjà vu along with it.

_It was just a dream,_ he repeats to himself as he goes through the motions to get ready for work.

 

* * *

 

Merlin dreams of Kilgharrah that night as well, but this dream is not a memory.

_“Young warlock,” the dragon says, voice full of reproach._

_“I’m hardly young anymore,” Merlin says. “I think I’m actually older now than you ever were.” The words come out harsher than he means them to._

_“Merlin.”_

_“What? I’m trying to sleep.”_

_“Didn’t you recognize him?” Kilgharrah asks softly, the same tone he used when he told Merlin Arthur was dead and there was nothing anyone could do to save him._

_The words, so plain, without any of the riddles usually masking Kilgharrah’s words, hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. It knocks all the air out of him and leaves him gasping on what passes for the floor in dreams like these._

Arthur, _he thinks. Every cell in his body sings the name, his heart beats in time to the rhythm the syllables form, and he clutches his abdomen, the overwhelming emotion choking him._

_“I thought…”_

_“Oh, young warlock. You should know by now that though the exact course of the future may be uncertain, there are some things that are set in stone.”_

_Morgana’s bloodlust. Mordred’s betrayal._

_Arthur’s return._

_The ball of emotion sitting heavy in his throat loosens and he starts to cry._ I failed again. All I had to do was wait and I couldn’t even manage that. _He lets out a wet chuckle._ I really am useless.

_“Does he even remember me?” Merlin finally asks in a hoarse whisper once his tears subside enough for him to be able to speak._

_“He will. But you must help him.”_

_“How do I do that?”_

_Kilgharrah grins, showing off teeth the length of Merlin’s forearm. “The same way you always have. By being at his side.”_

_Merlin snorts. “Right. Piece of cake.”_

 

* * *

 

Arthur is just settling into his work for the day when there’s a knock on his door. He glances up and nearly falls over from surprise when he sees Merlin standing there, looking sheepish.

_What have you done now?_ Arthur thinks fondly before he remembers that this is only the third or fourth time they’ve interacted. It’s that dream messing with his head again.

“Can I help you?” he asks in a bored tone, but he can feel his mouth quirking up into a smirk.

“I, um, wanted to…apologize for before.” The sides of his mouth twitch again as he listens to his own words being repeated back to him. “I feel like we kind of got off on the wrong foot.”

“Oh?”

Arthur can practically _hear_ Merlin gritting his teeth. _Stop being an asshole,_ his more rational side yells at him, but he can’t help it. There’s just something about Merlin.

“I was wondering if we could, you know. Start over.”

Arthur pretends to mull it over, although every part of him is eagerly shouting _Yes! Yes! Of course!_  Instead, he asks coolly, “I suppose. Tell me, how does coffee sound?”

 

* * *

 

_“Do you recognize him_ now _?” Kilgharrah asks smugly._

_“Oh, shut up.”_

But as he gets to know Arthur—through coffee outings and talking when they have a spare moment and trading text messages—it’s hard to understand how he ever could’ve doubted that this is _Arthur_. The sense of humor is the same, the warmth and kindness masked beneath a business-like exterior, the care and purpose behind every action, no matter how small.

_How I’ve missed you._

Arthur’s not all there—sometimes Merlin will forget and make off-handed jokes, references to things from their life before that Arthur remembers-but-doesn’t, leaving them both confused and out-of-sorts—but he’s back, after all this time he’s right where Merlin can reach him, and that’s what matters.

_Take your time. I have all the time in the world._

* * *

 

Another dream, but this time, Merlin is there.

_The forest is dark, the leaping light of the flames twisting the familiar shapes of branches into dark and menacing figures._

_Or perhaps it’s the weight on his mind that’s doing it._

_The weight of his kingdom rests on his shoulders. It seems like no matter what he does, he always ends up making the wrong decision._

_“What will you do?”_

_Merlin’s voice is soft, but the sound of it startles him out of his reverie, the words loud over the sound of the crackling fire and the crickets chirping in the bushes around them._

What will you do?

_“I don’t know,” he says honestly._

_He has been judged and he has been found wanting. His very nature struggles against it; all his life being pushed to do better, being pushed to be the_ best _, just and honest and fair. But  this… This is something else entirely._

_“What would you do? In my place?”_

_Merin is unusually evasive and something in his expression tells Arthur there are layers and layers to this, things at work he cannot even begin to imagine. He wonders again what kind of secrets his manservant keeps, where the wisdom that sometimes shines through his usual dopey expression even comes from._

Who are you really?

_The words are always on the tip of his tongue, but he’s afraid to ask. That question has never had a happy answer in the past: Morgause. Morgana. Agravaine. He’d rather not know if Merlin has ulterior motives._

_“So what should we do?” he finally asks. He knows that whatever Merlin says will be the final decision he makes. “Accept magic? Or let Mordred die?” Neither are palatable, but he has to choose._

_“There can be no place for magic in Camelot,” Merlin says, but there are tears shining in his eyes and something in Arthur’s gut tells him they aren’t for Mordred._

_So he pretends he doesn’t see. Even if it makes him a coward, he doesn’t want to know why they’re there, what else they could mean._

When Arthur wakes up, the memory bothers him. There’s a piece missing, something that he doesn’t remember that makes the memory feel incomplete. Hindsight that has gotten lost between then and now.

 

* * *

 

The morning hustle and bustle of the coffee shop around them creates the most disorienting juxtaposition to the question that Arthur asks him as they wait in line.

“Do you know someone named Mordred?”

Merlin thinks he heard wrong. He must’ve. Why is that name coming up now?

“What?”

“I—Never mind.”

Arthur looks troubled, brow furrowed as he fiddles with something in his pocket.

“Now I want to know. What did you ask me?”

“I asked if you knew someone named Mordred.”

“Mordred?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” Merlin lies smoothly. “Why?”

_I’m sorry._

“I… I keep… I’ve been having…” Arthur looks frustrated. “Do you ever have weird dreams?”

“Like?”

“Like…like dreams that feel like…like memories.”

Merlin congratulates himself on managing to keep his face blank. He moves forward in the line and gives his order to the barista. He rolls his eyes as Arthur leans over, gives his order, and pays for both of their drinks.

“Why do you always insist on doing that?”

Arthur beams at him, carefree for a moment. “I like paying for you.” The smile turns cheeky. “Especially since you hate it so much.” He accepts his change and they step off to the side for their drinks. “So?”

“So what?”

“Have you ever had a dream like that?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.” This time it’s not a lie. When Merlin dreams of Camelot, it doesn’t _feel_ like a memory, he knows it _is_ one.

_I never forgot any of it._

 

* * *

 

“You’ve been looking chipper lately,” Gwaine says when they meet for drinks Friday night.

Arthur makes a noncommittal humming noise that can barely be heard over the sound of the other bar patrons.

Gwen tilts her head, studying him. “He’s right,” she says finally. “You look happy. Well, happi _er_.”

 “Something good come your way?” Lance asks.

“You could say that.”

Gwaine raises an eyebrow at the secret smile Arthur directs into his drink. “With a face like that, I’m thinking it’s more of a some _one._ ”

“Is that true, Arthur?” Gwen asks, trying to tamp down her eagerness and failing completely.

He contemplates lying for a moment, but he doesn’t want to keep Merlin a secret.

_I’ve always been proud of having you by my side_ thinks the part of him where the dreams come from, but he shakes it off, along with that strange sense of familiarity he can’t quite explain. He feels like he’s known Merlin forever, the kind of connection that comes from growing up and together like vines twined around a tree, but that can’t be right. _We only met a month and a half ago._

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine too,” Gwen says quickly, mistaking his silence for reluctance.

“No, no, it’s fine. Actually, I was thinking of bringing him one night.”

Gwaine grins. “Sounds good. I’d like to see the fair creature that’s captured our Arthur’s heart.”

Arthur scoffs, hiding his embarrassment behind his glass. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a knock on the wall of his cubicle followed by his name. “Merlin.”

It’s ridiculous that just the sound of Arthur’s voice is enough to make him smile, to brighten up his bad days and send unpleasant thoughts on a one-way trip. “Yeah?” he says, faking disinterest by remaining buried in whatever work he has in front of him.

He sees Arthur sidle into his office out of the corner of his eye, idly running his hand over knick-knacks Merlin has collected over the centuries as he traveled from place to place. “Busy?”

“Just trying to finish something up. What’d you need?”

“What are you doing on Friday?” Arthur’s voice is too casual and when Merlin looks up, Arthur is studying a snow globe that dates back to the Victorian Era (he thinks he might’ve bought it in 1900. No, he definitely did because he remembers the lavish New Year’s celebration for the turn of the century).

He sits back in his chair, feeling his heart flutter in his chest. He recognizes this stance, this tone of voice. The world may change, but human nature never seems to.

“Nothing exciting,” he says carefully. “Why?”

“Well, usually on Fridays I go out with a couple of friends for drinks—you know, wind down from the work week—and I was wondering if you wanted to come along. They’re nice enough, I promise, even if Gwaine can be kind of a bastard sometimes.”

Merlin hopes the laugh he lets out doesn’t sound as hysterical to Arthur as it does to himself.

 

* * *

 

Seeing Merlin sitting at the table with his friends looks… _right_ to Arthur. It’s like there was an empty space at their table that none of them realized was there until Merlin had been there to fill it. He gets along with everyone swimmingly, telling the right kinds of jokes to get a laugh from the whole table at the same time (never an easy feat) and filling up everyone’s glasses before they get too low.

For the first time, he feels like he’s really _here_ , really in the moment, and that can only be because Merlin is here beside him.

He almost reaches for Merlin’s hand but stops himself just in time. Instead, he settles for allowing the warmth he feels inside to fill up his body and spill out into his words and his gazes.

_I’m glad you’re here._

 

* * *

 

_“There’s something different about him,” Merlin says._

_“Oh?” Kilgharrah asks. “Such as?”_

_“He keeps…_ looking _at me.”_

_The dragon laughs at him._

_“Hey!”_

_“There is a bond between you two, as there has always been and always will be. Such strength of affection… It has only one name.”_

_“And that name is…?” Merlin asks, the words sounding strangled. He has a feeling he already knows the answer._

_Kilgharrah gives him a look._

_“Humor me.” He feels his palms getting clammy as his heart races._

_“It is known as love.”_

Merlin startles awake, the blankets tangled around him. His first instinct is to deny it.

_You waited for him. You waited for him for all this time._

_Duty. Friendship. That’s all it was._

_Duty, was it? And how did you feel when you knew it was him? When you knew he was back?_

He doesn’t know what to say to that. The undertones to his relief were too complicated, too tangled up in—

_You can be his friend and still love him._

Love.

He loves Arthur.

And Arthur loves him back.

 

* * *

 

_Arthur knows it’s the end, or close to it, because Merlin is telling him the truth._

_“I have magic. And I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you.”_

_It would explain so many things—it would explain_ everything _, really—but he doesn’t want to believe it. He can’t._

_He remembers the words of Grettir, the dwarf from the bridge to the Fisher King’s castle in the Perilous Lands._

“There are two more things you’ll need to complete your quest: Strength and Magic.”

_And then Gwaine and Merlin had arrived._

_No._ No.

_“Merlin, you’re not a sorcerer. I would know.”_

_Merlin pulls away and holds out his palm in the way Arthur had seen Morgana do so many times, speaking the guttural language of the Old Religion that usually precedes unimaginable destruction._

_Arthur can’t help himself. He flinches, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the entire forest they’re in to be razed and the Saxons to ride out and capture them. Except that this is Merlin, Merlin who would never betray him, Merlin who has tried to die for him countless times, and instead all that happens is the sparks of the fire form the Pendragon crest. It floats in the air for a moment before a breeze whisks it away._

_He can’t deny it anymore, so he does the only thing he can._

_“Leave me,” he demands._

_“Arthur!” Merlin looks like he’s going to cry again and Arthur almost wants to snap at him._ “No man is worth your tears.” _Instead, he pushes some more._

_“No. Just…you heard. Just…”_

_And Merlin goes._

When Arthur wakes up, his face is wet and he’s having trouble breathing, guilt heavy in his chest. _I was so blind, so, so blind. I’m sorry._

At least that wasn’t the last time they spoke. At least he was able to make it right before the end.

He rolls over, hoping to find happier dreams, but they don’t come.

 

* * *

 

Arthur is in Merlin’s doorway again on Monday morning. There are deep bags under his bloodshot eyes and his clothes are wrinkled instead of neatly pressed.

“Arthur?” he asks carefully. “Is everything alright?”

Arthur opens and closes his mouth several times before deciding on something to say. “Do you still have it?” he finally asks.

“Have what?”

“The m—the magic.”

Merlin goes very still. There are numerous things he could say to this, each with their own list of pros and cons.

He goes first for clarification. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I know this might be hard for you, but try not to play dumb for a second, Merlin,” Arthur snaps, eyes too bright. He sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, and tries again. “I—Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Rough weekend?” He tries to keep his tone light, but Arthur is studying him the way he used to when Merlin slipped up and Arthur was trying to reconcile the two different people his manservant could be.

“Please just answer the question.”

“I…” He can’t lie. Not again. _I’ve missed you._ “Yes.”

Arthur nods but he looks distracted as if he’s trying to sort through large volumes of information before he forgets it all.

“Arthur?”

He looks up like he’s forgotten Merlin is still there, despite this being Merlin’s office.

“Do you… What do you remember?”

 

* * *

 

They leave early the office early.

They go to Arthur’s apartment.

They talk.

 

* * *

 

“You waited for me,” Arthur says.

Merlin looks away. There’s something in the tone of Arthur’s voice that embarrasses him, that gets too close to what Kilgharrah had said that night after Merlin had gone to the bar to meet Arthur’s friends.

“All this time… Merlin, you _idiot_. You complete _moron._ ”

“Wh—?”

“Why did you—How long was I…dead? Asleep?”

“About 1500 years,” Merlin says quietly.

“And you…”

Merlin’s throat and eyes burn with shame. “I didn’t… I tried, but I… It was just too… I’m so—”

“Oh, Merlin.”

He jumps as Arthur pulls him forward into a hug, but he can’t stop himself from melting into it.

“It’s a little late, but I guess you got your hug eventually,” Arthur murmurs into his shoulder.

Merlin laughs, thick and wet. The fact that Arthur remembers something so silly, so small, makes his heart speed up a bit.

“I’m sorry for making you wait. Did you… You weren’t…”

“I wasn’t alone.” Not all the time, at least. He doesn’t need to tell Arthur about the times he couldn’t handle all the faces streaming past, each one a stranger’s, and needed to be alone, living in the woods like an animal. “Not always.”

“I’m here now though.”

“Yeah.”

They hug for a long time.

The future is uncertain—Merlin hasn’t forgotten Kilgharrah’s warning—but Arthur is here. _All_ of him is here, all of his memories, all of himself, and they can face it together, side by side like they’re meant to be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Despite this being inspired by binging on my The Weepies collection, the title comes from a Joshua Radin song.


End file.
